Dylan's Story
by Slow Dancing In A Burning Room
Summary: The life of fourteen-year-old Dylan Michalchuk is a stressful one. What with hockey, girls, and... boys, can Dylan deal with his life? A Dylan-centric story of how he overcomes his challenges in life.
1. Hockey

**Title:** Dylan's Story   
  
**Rating:** PG-13 for themes and language   
  
**Characters:** In this chapter: Dylan, Dylan's father, Kaley, Paige   
  
**Disclaimer:** Not a thing belongs to me. How I wish, though.   
  
**Author's Note:** This story may not be updated that frequently, seeing as I'm working on two other stories as well. I just wanted to get it out there, though. It focused on Dylan when he's younger, dealing with coming out of the closet, the stress of having a boyfriend, and more. There aren't too many Dyl-centric stories out there, so voila. Enjoy the story. :)   
  
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The whistle blew loudly. It echoed across the ice, and in a split second, twenty guys were gliding gracefully across the ice, as fast as their skates would carry them. Each line was touched by each hand, until they were finished and panting back at the beginning. Breathing hard but still managing a smile, fourteen-year-old Dylan Michalchuk pushed his blonde curls out of his eyes. He lived for this kind of stuff.   
  
The whistle shrieked again, and the boys took off once more. At least eight more times this pattern repeated itself. When the whistle blew for the last time, the guys were dripping with sweat, breathing heavily and irregularly, and using only their hockey sticks to hold themselves up. Dylan, however, was perked up and ready for another round. He had to be the best - people depended on him.   
  
Instead, though, the coach yelled out, "Good job, boys. Final cuts will be posted tomorrow." The word _tomorrow_ bounced across the frozen arena, and Dylan gave a slight shudder of excitement and nervousness. There was no doubt in his mind that he would make the team, but there was always that slight chance. He was sure, though, that he'd pushed himself harder than any of the other nineteen guys trying out.   
  
Pushing a sweaty hand against his equally sweaty forehead, he watched the other guys file off the ice and into the locker room outside the arena. Instead of following, he flipped the hockey puck up and down with his stick.   
  
"Aren't you coming, Dylan?" his friend Brett, who was also trying out for the hockey team, called out to him.   
  
"Nah," Dylan replied casually. "I'm gonna stick around and play a little."   
  
Shaking his head in wonderment, Brett only said, "Suit yourself," and joined the others in the locker room. It wasn't only that Dylan wanted to work on his slap shot, but lately he was feeling uncomfortable. He skated away from the goal a bit, and then aimed his shot and went for it. The puck whirled at the goal, full speed, towards the left, but it curved a little and landed in the goal on the right. Just the thing that would fake any goalie out.   
  
He gave a little victory lap around the goal, and then played around a little more. After a while, he headed into the now-empty locker room. He showered, changed his clothes, and proceeded out. Outside the stadium, Dylan's father's minivan was parked. Rolling down the window as Dylan advanced, his dad gave him a dirty look.   
  
"I thought I told you to hurry up," his dad scolded as Dylan climbed into the passenger seat.   
  
"I did Dad, but we ran late," he lied, buckling his seatbelt over his chest and throwing his bag into the backseat.   
  
"Then why have all the other boys come out? A good fifteen minutes ago?" He stared innocently at his dad's stern expression, and smiled quickly. If there was one good thing (other than hockey) that Dylan was terrific at, it was improvising.   
  
"Well, _actually_ the coach wanted to talk to me after practice. He said I was a shoo-in for the team." He hesitated as his dad's expression only faltered, unsure of whether or not to believe him. "He also asked me where I learned to play. And know what, Dad? I said from you." He flashed his pearly whites at his father.   
  
Giving in, Mr. Michalchuk laughed as he began to drive away from his son's second home. "Yeah, yeah. I bet you did." He patted his son's back nobly, and then glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "So, how was the tryout?"   
  
"Pretty good. I finished my laps first, and I also scored a lot. We ran tons," he replied, with a swift nod of the head.   
  
"Way to go," he replied, beaming proudly at his only son. When they got to the house, Dylan lugged his heavy hockey bag in the house and collapsed on his couch. Within two minutes of his return home, the phone started ringing. He heard his little sister, Paige, answer the phone in her bedroom. He then heard her feet padding against the carpet, no doubt heading towards him. Groaning, he sat up.   
  
"Dyl, phone's for you," she informed him, holding out the phone.   
  
"Who is it?"   
  
"Kaley." He thanked her, and then took the phone and put it up to his ear.   
  
"Hello?"   
  
"Hey honey," Kaley's voice came floating from the phone, and he smiled. Kaley was his best friend… and she also happened to his girlfriend. The _best friend_ was a thing he would never doubt, but the _girlfriend_… he just wasn't so sure.   
  
He didn't have the heart to break up with her; besides, if he did, that would probably end his friendship with her. That was the very last thing he wanted.   
  
"Hey you," he smiled back into the phone. "How's it going?"   
  
"Well, I just got back from the mall. I went with Stephanie and Kelsey," she replied. "How about you?"   
  
"Tryouts."   
  
"Ohh, that's right. Last one, huh?" He nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "Are you nervous?"   
  
"Naturally."   
  
"Well, don't be. You'll definitely make the team." Her words were soothing. He felt way better already. "You're the best thing in hockey since… Michael Jordan." He laughed loudly; though Kaley was his best friend, she knew absolutely nothing in the world of sports.   
  
"Michael Jordan, huh?" He teased, and she giggled.   
  
"Oh shut up. You know what I mean."   
  
"Actually, no, I'm not so sure I do," he told her, making a slight humming noise.   
  
"I'm _trying_ to be the supportive girlfriend here." **Girlfriend**… the word alone these days made him shudder.   
  
"You're doing a fine job," he said, despite all the awkward feelings and emotions he had.   
  
"Good. Now, I _know_ you haven't done that algebra assignment, so I'm letting - no, I'm ordering you to tell me goodnight, hang up that phone, and go do it," she commanded, in a serious but light tone.   
  
"Ma'am yes ma'am," he chuckled. "Goodnight, Kaley."   
  
"Night Dylan."   
  
Grinning, he hung up the phone and once more stretched out on the couch, his eyes fluttering closed. Within seconds, the phone began ringing. He answered it without saying anything, because he knew exactly who it was.   
  
"I said homework," Kaley told him, in a mockingly stern manner.   
  
"I'm doing it!" he lied.   
  
"Liar."   
  
"What, do you stalk me?" Though he was kidding, he glanced out the window to make sure Kaley wasn't crouched below there in the bushes.   
  
"Of course. Somebody's gotta be there to yank that chain when it needs a good yankin'," she laughed.   
  
"Oh, so now I'm on a chain?"   
  
"No, no. I stand corrected," she told him, with another giggle. "You are on a _leash_."   
  
"Oh-ho, I don't think so!"   
  
"I have you wrapped around my finger. You are so whipped."   
  
"I'm not whipped!"   
  
"Completely whipped," she said, grinning. His protests were halfhearted, but he did not think he was at all whipped. Heck, he wasn't even attracted to her that much. That wasn't something he'd tell anyone though, of course.   
  
"Homework, now."   
  
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." With a sigh, he dug through his bag and emerged with his algebra book.   
  
"Good boy," Kaley said, as though she had seen him retrieve his homework. He arched an eyebrow. "Night," she said warmly, and he smiled.   
  
"Good night, stalker."   
  
"I only do it 'cause I love you," she said somewhat flirtatiously, and Dylan paled. Love? Meekly, he forced a laugh. Love was one of his everyday vocabulary words - he _loved_ hockey, and he _loved_ apple pie. But Kaley? He could honestly say he loved her - but not in the way she would want him to. He had a feeling of platonic, best friend love for her, which he felt completely guilty of. He _should_ have loved her, but he couldn't force himself to.   
  
"Four-X squared plus six-Y minus the square root of…" he laughed, and she tsk-ed approvingly before hanging up on him.   
  
Laughing slightly to himself still, he worked on his homework for a little while. He was too worn out to do much though, so after awhile he went up to his room and collapsed on his bed.   
  
Closing his eyes, he tried to think about Kaley. She was a great girl. Soon, his thoughts drifted over to his best friend Brett. Brett playing hockey, Brett in the locker room… he snapped his eyes open before he could think anything else. Disgruntled, he turned on his side and pushed the thoughts away.   
  
Something was wrong with him; he just didn't know what.   
  
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A/N: Okeydoke, the chapter's over. **Please** review. I love reviews.   
  
Thanks for reading!! 


	2. Poetry

**Title:** Dylan's Story   
  
**Rating:** PG-13 for themes and language   
  
**Characters:** In this chapter: Dylan, Dylan's father, Kaley, Paige   
  
**Disclaimer:** Not a thing belongs to me. How I wish, though.   
  
**Author's Note:** Ohmygod I wrote more?! I want to say thanks to everyone who's given me positive feedback already, it really does mean a lot to me.   
  
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"Dylan." The formerly fast asleep teen groaned inwardly as he was being shaken awake. "Dylan!" the young female's voice insisted, and then once more. "Wake _up_."   
  
"Five more minutes, Paige," Dylan mumbled, not opening his eyes.   
  
"We have to leave in five minutes! Get your lazy butt out of bed." She violently shook her older brother's shoulder with ever word for added emphasis.   
  
When he made no notion of getting up and ready for school, she took a step backwards and sighed. "You get to find out if you made the team today."   
  
His head snapped up so fast that he got a painful crick in his neck. Rubbing it vigorously, he scrambled out of his bed and into his closet. Paige watched him amusedly.   
  
A few seconds later, he emerged from the closet, pulling a Maple Leafs' shirt on over his head, and he made his way to the bathroom while pulling jeans on over his boxers. Paige followed him out of the room, but continued down the stairs when she saw Dylan trying to brush his teeth, run a comb through his curls, and button his jeans all at the same time.   
  
Finally, Dylan came bounding down the stairs, and into the kitchen. Though his father had already departed for work, his mother was sitting at the kitchen table, exasperatedly glaring at him. "Dylan, this is the third time this week I've had to send your sister up to get you out of bed. It's got to stop. You are supposed to be the responsible one, setting an example for her, not the other way around."   
  
"I know, Mom. I'm sorry," he said, and he was. Sort of. He rummaged through the pantry until he had pulled out a granola bar, and then flashed his best smile to his mother. She finally gave in and smiled back, and proceeded to kissing the top of his head.   
  
"Are you both ready?" she asked her children, and they both nodded. All three of them loaded up into the family van. It didn't take a long time for them to reach the school, and Dylan said goodbye to his mom before racing inside the building. As soon as he burst through the school doors, his best friend Brett stopped him in his tracks.   
  
"Dude, I didn't sleep at all last night. I'm that worried! I mean, you, man, you don't have to worry about anything. You'll probably even be captain. Can you imagine that, a Grade Nine captain? But me, I probably don't even have a chance of making the team…" he was nervously rambling so fast that Dylan hardly caught a word that came out of his mouth.   
  
Laughing, Dylan shook his head at his brown-haired friend's nervousness. "Calm down, Brett. You'll definitely make it. But… I don't know about me." Of course he was worried; there was a little voice in the back of his head telling him he didn't have a single thing to stress about, but those little voices were often horribly wrong.   
  
"Yeah, right. As if Michalchuk would be anything less than a starter. That would be a sin," he assured the other boy, grinning. Suddenly, Dylan remembered thinking about Brett in a more than friendly way the previous night, and he shifted his eyes immediately to the ground. He was scared his best friend could read his thoughts. The worst thing that could possibly happen was someone finding out… he would be tortured for the rest of his life.   
  
"Hey, man, you all right?" Brett said concernedly, putting a hand on Dylan's back. He jerked away from the touch and forced himself to think of something else… hockey, algebra, grass, _something_.   
  
"I'm fine. Just, uh, nerves, you know?" Fortunately, he saw familiar long brown hair coming towards him, and he focused his thoughts completely on her. She was definitely a safe subject to have his mind on, though he didn't exactly want to for some reason. "Kaley, hi," he said, as his girlfriend drew nearer.   
  
"Hey," she said with a smile. "Hi Brett."   
  
He was about to respond back when suddenly he got shoved aside by another student coming into the school at that time. Dylan looked at him and immediately groaned to himself. It was Jay Hobart.   
  
Jay had moved to Degrassi the year before, and Dylan was told to show him the ropes, which meant taking him to all the classes, lunch, and everything else. He had practically been a one-man welcoming committee, but not by choice. They immediately discovered that they were worlds apart - Dylan dressed like a hockey player, while Jay dressed like a gangster. Dylan was generally nice to almost everyone, while Jay hated the world.   
  
Right from the start Jay had taken a nasty attitude with him, and was determined to hate him for the rest of his years at Degrassi; he'd taken it upon himself to get the blonde in trouble whenever he could.   
  
"Move it, losers," Jay said, walking past them with a black kid named Towerz (who rarely spoke) following after him.   
  
"I don't get him," Brett announced, after they were out of earshot. "Does he like _anybody?_"   
  
"Yeah," Kaley said scornfully, "himself." The three all laughed. "Well, I'm gonna go catch up with Steph but you two behave yourselves, you hear me?" she mockingly ordered the boys, and they in turn saluted her. She kissed Dylan on the cheek lovingly, and then turned away and disappeared into the crowd.   
  
"You really lucked out man. I'd say she's the hottest girl in grade nine… maybe even in grade ten, too." Dylan uneasily chuckled, but he was relieved when Brett switched the conversation back to hockey. "What time will the list be posted?" he asked anxiously, even though he knew the answer. He looked at him with such wide eyes that Dylan had to laugh.   
  
"One, Brett. One o'clock."   
  
"Right." He sighed, glancing at the clock in the hallway. "We better get to class."   
  
"Yeah," he agreed, and the two silently filed into Ms. Kwan's English class.   
  
"Good morning, class," Kwan said when everyone was sitting down and quiet. "Today begins the next section in our studies: poetry." There was a collective groan from the class as she started handing out poetry books to each student. "We're going to begin today by reading the works of Walt Whitman." She glanced around the classroom, and said, "Mr. Hobart, why don't you begin?"   
  
Dylan was surprised Jay had even shown up for class. Usually he skipped all classes that had to do with learning. Jay's eyes narrowed slightly, and he said in his toughest voice, "I don't do poems."   
  
"You either read the poem, or go visit Mr. Raditch," she warned him.   
  
"Fine," he said, scoffing as he stood up. He left the classroom at once, and Kwan disbelievingly shook her head.   
  
"The most famous poem that you all probably know of by Mr. Whitman is entitled 'O Captain! My Captain!' Amanda, would you please begin?" Kwan said, indicating one of the students.   
  
Amanda pulled her book closer and began reading the poem aloud. Dylan immediately felt his eyelids drooping - he didn't especially like poetry. Suddenly, though, a piece of paper fell into his lap and he curiously looked around the room. Brett was grinning at him and motioning towards the note, so Dylan picked it up and read:   
  
_Poetry is such a bore. I say we make it a little more fun._   
  
Dylan paused, trying to figure out what he meant. He wasn't sure, so he scribbled something and threw it at Brett. It said:   
  
**Yeah, like what?**   
  
_If you get called on, start stuttering and talking really slowly. Like you can't read._   
  
**And get a detention after school? You do realize that the first hockey practice is today after school, right? No way. I'm not getting in trouble.**   
  
Brett's face fell as he read the note, but he put _You're right_ and sent it back to his best friend. However, Kwan noticed this time. "Boys!" she said threateningly, and they both stared at their poetry books trying to look innocent.   
  
Amanda finished reading her poem at that time, and Kwan went on to teach, "Walt Whitman wrote many poems of all variations. Some were long, others were short. But one thing stood true: he loved the freedom he had to write poems, and he often expressed it every chance he got. Which is why, Mr. Michalchuk, I'd like you to read a different kind of poem on page fourteen." The ruffling of paper was heard as the students, including Dylan, flipped to page fourteen. "Please begin."   
  
Dylan looked down at the poem, and his eyes widened slightly in horror. Around him, everyone was snickering at the title alone: **We Two Boys Together Clinging**. "Is there a problem, Mr. Michalchuk?" Kwan asked, almost daring him to say yes.   
  
"No," he said slowly, "but this poem… it's about, um…"   
  
"I know exactly what it is about. And unless you'd rather stay after school and read it then, please begin."   
  
He paused for a moment, knowing there was no way he could get detention. So he started to read, ignoring the quiet laughs,   
  
_"We two boys together clinging,  
One the other never leaving,  
Up and down the roads going - North and South excursions making,  
Power enjoying - elbows stretching - fingers clutching,  
Arm'd and fearless - eating, drinking, sleeping, loving…"_   
  
His voice got notably lower as he continued, until finally he was barely above a whisper while his cheeks were glowing bright red. He thought about his dream the night before, and he couldn't push it out of his head. Was the poem related to his dream? They were both boys. But he wasn't gay. Of course not, the idea was ridiculous. But yet, he kept going,   
  
"_No law less than ourselves owning - sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,  
Misers, menials, priests alarming - air breathing, water drinking, on the turf or the sea-beach dancing,  
Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chasing,  
Fulfilling our foray."_   
  
"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Kwan said, but Dylan's cheeks were still burning. "Would anyone like to share their thoughts on this poem?" Not one person moved. "Anyone?" Still nothing but dead silence. "All right, Dylan, what did you think of it?"   
  
He was convinced her soul purpose was to torture him. Did she know that he was thinking about a boy in a way he shouldn't have the night before? No, that was impossible… Could teachers sense those kinds of things? "I think… I think that, uh…" He side-glanced Brett, who was shaking with silent laughter.   
  
"Did you enjoy the poem?" Kwan asked.   
  
"Well, it's, um, it's not exactly my style," he managed to say, squirming a bit in his seat. He wished she would ask someone else these questions.   
  
"Really? Why's that?"   
  
"Because… Um, because…" He was fumbling for words, while the rest of the class laughed at his expense.   
  
"Because it is by a male and about another male?" she pinpointed, looking sternly at him. "Is there something about homosexuality that threatens you?"   
  
"Well…"   
  
"Let me ask you this. If it were about a girl, would you have a bit more respect for it?"   
  
"I… I don't know…"   
  
"How about you, Brett?" Ms. Kwan asked, filling Dylan with relief. Brett immediately stopped laughing, and his cheeks started to get a little bit red as well. "Did you enjoy it?"   
  
"No, not really," he said slowly, shaking his head.   
  
"Why not?"   
  
"Because…" He paused and stared down at the book for a few seconds, before lifting his head once again and shrugging slightly. "Because it doesn't rhyme?"   
  
"So you tend to favor poems more if they rhyme?"   
  
"Yes," he lied.   
  
"Well, then look forward to next Thursday then, which is when we'll begin studying rhyming poetry." He nodded, and Dylan wished he were as smooth of a talker in class as Brett was.   
  
"Does anyone have any thoughts on this poem besides the fact that it's by a man and about a man and that it doesn't rhyme?"   
  
A girl from the back of the class named Tara raised her hand. "I could hardly hear it. Dylan wasn't reading very loudly." Dylan closed his eyes, cursing at her under his breath.   
  
"Did anyone else have that same problem?" Ms. Kwan asked, and several other kids raised their hands.   
  
"Okay, then, Dylan, please read the poem once more, but louder this time." He began to read it again, but he couldn't keep his voice from shaking slightly as he read it as loud as he could. When he finished, Ms. Kwan stared at him for a few seconds. He wanted her to look away so badly. "What about this poem intimidates you, Dylan?"   
  
"Nothing," he lied, staring at his desk with a face the color of a cherry.   
  
"Then why do you have such a difficult time reading it?"   
  
"I… I just don't like reading about gay men," he mumbled, and some kids snickered.   
  
"Aha. Does anybody else feel the same way?" Many of the students slowly raised their hands, and Dylan started breathing normally again. "Well, then allow me to tell you this. It was poems like these that got Mr. Whitman fired from his job. He continued to write, though, because he loved the fact that he had that freedom." There was a short silence, and Dylan was extremely glad when they moved on to the next poem.   
  
Finally it was lunchtime; one o'clock was drawing closer and closer. Though Brett and Dylan had paid for their lunches, both were picking at them without actually eating. Their stomachs were churning with anxiety.   
  
"I can't eat, I'll throw up," Brett finally said, voicing the thought that they were sharing.   
  
"Me too."   
  
"What about that poem today, huh?" Brett went on with a sly grin. He mocking put a hand over his heart and say in a high-pitched effeminate tone, "We two boys together clinging…"   
  
"At least you didn't have to read it," Dylan said, and his cheeks started to redden once more. "Twice."   
  
"Why do you think she made us read a gay poem?" he wondered aloud, and then said in a softer voice, "I bet it's because of Tom."   
  
"Tom?" Dylan said, confused. He knew who Tom was, but he didn't know anything about his sexuality.   
  
"Yeah." He jerked his head in the direction of a black-haired kid sitting alone at a table. "I heard he's a fag. Just came out last month or something."   
  
Eyes widening, Dylan studied him a little closer. Tom had always been a little girlier than all the other guys. He was always picked last in gym class. If he thought about it, he probably would have noticed that he liked guys. Did people see that about him? No. No, of course not.   
  
"You um, you think anyone else is gay?" he asked Brett in a slightly strained voice, avoiding eye contact.   
  
"What, like you?" He laughed, and Dylan's ears turned bright pink. His stomach was knotting more and more. "Uhh I don't know any other gay guys. Thank God."   
  
"Yeah." He eyed the clock, and suddenly a grin nearly split his face in two. "Dude, it's one!"   
  
"Really?!" his best friend said excitedly, and the two threw their trash away before racing off towards the main office.   
  
The list was hanging on the door, and the boys closed their eyes as they came near. They were the first ones there. They each took a deep breath, and prayed silently, while they looked at it.   
  
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Wow, what a lame cliffhanger. I'm sure you guys know the outcome. If not… you don't really watch Degrassi, do you? ;-)   
  
Uhh yeah, I hope that was okay. I really wanted to update this thing for some reason. So please, review telling me any thoughts about this story, or just drop a little note saying you read it. Thanks guys! 


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